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SYLVIE:
(SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.)

G&RARD T>E

OF all that were thy prisons — ah, untamed,
Ah, light and sacred soul! — none holds thee now ;
No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou
Art free and happy in the lands unnamed,
Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,
Thou still would' st bear that mystic golden bough
The Sibyl doth to singing men allow,
Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.

And they would smile and wonder, seeing where

Thou stood' st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind,

Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,

Caught from the yalois peasants ; dost thou find

A new life gladder than the old times were,
<A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?

ANDREW LANG.

S YLVIE :

SOUVENIRS DUVALOIS

TRANSLATED FROM GERARD

DE NERVAL BY

LUCIE PAGE

Portland, Maine
MAS <B.3AO8

Mdcccxcvi

Tbis First Edition on
Van G elder paper con-
sists 0/925 copies.

COPYRIGHT

THOMAS B. MOSHER

1896

22.^0

CONTENTS

PAGE

SYLVIE ET AUR^LIE. — ANDREW LANG vii

GERARD DE NERVAL . 1 . . ix
SYLVIE :

I A WASTED NIGHT . . 3

II ADRIENNE . . . . IO

III RESOLVE .... 14

IV A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA . . 1 8
V THE VILLAGE .' » . 22

VI ORTHYS , , . -. ' .. .26

VII CHAALIS * • •. » 32

VIII THE BALL AT LOISY . . 36

IX HERMENONVILLE . . . 40

X BIG CURLY-HEAD . . : . 45

XI RETURN . ^ . V 49

V

SYLVIE: (CONTINUED.)

XII FATHER DODU .

XIII AURELIE

XIV THE LAST LEAF

APPENDIX .

CONTENTS

PAGE

• • 54
. 58

• • 63

. 69

SYLYIE ET AUR&LIE.

IN MEMORY OF GERARD *DE UERVAL.

Two loves Here were, and one was born
Between the sunset and the rain;
Her singing voice went through the corn,
Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn,
On grass the fallen blossoms stain;
And suns may set and moons may wane,
But this love comes no more again.

There were two loves, and one made white

Thy singing lips and golden hair;
Born of the city's mire and light,
The shame and splendour of the night,
She trapped and fled thee unaware ;
&{pt through the lamplight and the rain
Shalt thou behold this love again.

Go forth and seek, by wood and hill,
Thine ancient love of dawn and dew ;

There comes no voice from mere or rill,

Her dance is over, fallen still

The ballad burdens that she knew :

And thou must wait for her in vain,

Till years bring back thy youth again.

SYLVIE ET AURELIE

That other love, afield, afar
Fled the light love, with lighter feet.

Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,

tAndflit in dreams from star to star.
That dead love thou shalt never meet,

Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain

Thy soul shall find her soul again.

ANDREW LANG.

GERARD DE NERVAL

II a toujours cherche* dans le monde
ce que le monde ne pouvait plus lui
donner.

LUDOVIC HALHVY.

He has been a sick man all his life.
He was always a seeker after some-
thing in the world that is there in no
satisfying measure, or not at all.

WALTER PATER.

GERARD DE NERVAL.
I.

OF Gerard de Nerval, whose true name
was Gerard Labrunie, it has been finely
said : " His was the most beautiful of all the
lost souls of the French Romance."1 Born
in 1808, he came to his death by suicide one
dark winter night towards the end of January,
1855.

The story of this life and its tragic finale
was well known at the time to all men of
letters, — Theophile Gautier, Paul de Saint-
Victor, Arsene Houssaye, — friends who never
forgot the young poet even after he went the
way that madness lies. For it was insanity, —
a nostalgia of the soul always imminent —
that led him into the squalid Rue de la
Vieille-Lanterne> in which long forgotten

i See <A Century of French Verse, translated and
edited by William John Robertson (410, London, 1895).

xi

GERARD DE NERVAL

corner of old Paris his dead body was found
one bleak belated dawn. And this was forty
years ago.

In later days Maxime du Camp and Ludo-
vic Halevy have retold with great feeling the
history of Gerard, his early triumphs, his
love for Jenny Colon, — the Aurelie of these
Souvenirs du Valois, — and how at last life's
scurrile play was ended.

II.

One of Mr. Andrew Lang's most genuine
appreciations occurs in an epistle addressed
to Miss Girton, Cambridge; where, for the
benefit of that mythical young person, he
translates a few passages out of Sylvie, and
favours us with a specimen of Gerard's verse.

"I translated these fragments," he tells
her, " long ago in one of the first things I ever
tried to write. The passages are as touching
and fresh, the originals, I mean, as when first
I read them, and one hears the voice of
Sylvie singing:

'*A ^Dammartin, Vy a trois belles filles,
L'y en a %'une plus belle que le jour,'

So Sylvie married a confectioner, and, like
Marion in the ' Ballad of Forty Years,' « Ad-
rienne's dead " in a convent. That is all the
story, all the idyl.*'

GERARD DE NERVAL

And just before this he has said of Gerard :
" What he will live by, is his story of Sylvie ;
it is one of the little masterpieces of the
world. It has a Greek perfection. One
reads it, and however old one is, youth comes
back, and April, and a thousand pleasant
sounds of birds in hedges, of wind in the
boughs, of brooks trotting merrily under the
rustic bridges. And this fresh nature is
peopled by girls eternally young, natural, gay,
or pensive, standing with eager feet on the
threshold of their life, innocent, expectant,
with the old ballads of old France upon their
lips. For the story is full of these artless,
lisping numbers of the popular French muse,
the ancient ballads that Gerard collected and
put into the mouth of Sylvie, the pretty
peasant-girl."

One more quotation from Mr. Lang, and
we are done. Sylvie and Gerard have met,
and they go on a visit to her aunt, who, while
she prepares dinner, sends Gerard for her
niece, who had "gone to ransack the peasant
treasures in the garret." " Two portraits were
hanging there — one, that of a young man of
the good old times, smiling with red lips and
brown eyes, a pastel in an oval frame. An-
other medallion held the portrait of his wife,
gay, piquante, in a bodice with ribbons flut-
tering, and with a bird perched on her ringer.

GERARD DE NERVAL

It was the old aunt in her youth, and further
search discovered her ancient festal-gown, of
stiff brocade, Sylvie arrayed herself in this
splendour; patches were found in a box of
tarnished gold, a fan, a necklace of amber."
This is the charming moment chosen by
M. Andhre des Gachons as the subject of
his aquarelle, reproduced in colour as frontis-
piece to the present edition.

III.

In thus bringing out a fresh version of
Sylvie, not to include the all too few illusive
lyrics " done into English " by Mr. Lang, his
exquisite sonnet on Gerard, and the lovely
lines upon "Sylvie et Aurelie," were a de-
plorable omission. The sonnet exists in an
earlier form ; preferably, the later version is
here given.

Of De Nerval's prose little has yet found
its way to us. His poetry is fully as inacces-
sible. Things of such iridescent hue are
possibly beyond the art of translation. They
are written in an unknown tongue ; say, rath-
er, in the language of Dreamland, "vaporous,
unaccountable"; — a world of crepuscular
dawns, as of light irradiated from submerged
sea caverns, — "the mermaid's haunt" beheld
of him alone.

GERARD DE NERVAL

IV.

With what adieux shall we now take leave
of our little pearl of a story ? And of him
who gave us this exquisite creation of heart
and brain what words remain to say ?

Thou, Sylvie, art an unfading flower of
virginal, soft Spring, and faint, elusive skies.
For thee Earth's old sweet nights have shed
their tenderest dews, and in thy lovely Valois
land thou canst not fade or die.

Thy lover, child, fared forth beneath an
alien star. For him there was no true coun-
try, here; — no return to thy happy-hearted
love : the desert sands long since effaced the
valley track. Only the far distant lying, —
the abyss that calls and is never dumb, urged
his onward steps. And these things, and this
divine homesickness led him, pale nympho-
lept, beyond Earth's human shores. Thither
to thee, rapt Soul, shall all bright dreams of
day, all lonely visions of the night, converge
at last.

\

SYLVIE :
(SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.)

OLD TUNE.

GERARD <DE NERYAL.

THERE is an air for which I would disown
Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, —
A sweet^ sad air that languishes and sighs,
And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,
Two hundred years are mist that rolls away ;

The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
iA green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
The windows gay with many coloured glass ;

Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
A lady looks forth from her window high;

It may be that I knew and found her fair,
In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

- (ANDREW LANG.)

SYLVIE

(RECOLLECTIONS OF VALOIS.)

I.

A WASTED NIGHT.

I PASSED out of a theatre .where I was
wont to appear nightly, in the proscenium
boxes, in the attitude of suitor. Sometimes it
was full, sometimes nearly empty; it mattered
little to me, Whether a handful of listless
spectators occupied the pit, while antiquated
costumes formed a doubtful setting for the
boxes, or whether I made one of an audience
swayed by emotion, crowned at every tier
with flower-decked robes, flashing gems and
radiant faces. The spectacle of the house
left me indifferent, that of the stage could not
fix my attention until at the second or third
scene of a dull masterpiece of the period, a
familiar vision illumined the vacancy, and by

SYLVIE

a word and a breath, gave life to the shadowy
forms around me.

I felt that my life was linked with hers;
her smile filled me with immeasurable bliss;
the tones of her voice, so sweet and sonorous,
thrilled me with love and joy. My ardent
fancy endowed her with every perfection
until she seemed to respond to all my rap-
tures — beautiful as day in the blaze of the
footlights, pale as night when their glare was
lowered and rays from the chandelier above
revealed her, lighting up the gloom with the
radiance of her beauty, like those divine
Hours with starry brows, which stand out
against the dark background of the frescoes
of Herculaneum.

For a whole year I had not sought to know
what she might be, in the world outside, fear-
ing to dim the magic mirror which reflected
to me her image. Some idle gossip, it is true,
touching the woman, rather than the actress,
had reached my ears, but I heeded it less than
any floating rumours concerning the Princess
of Elis or the Queen of Trebizonde, for I was
on my guard. An uncle of mine whose man-
ner of life during the period preceding the
close of the eighteenth century, had given
him occasion to know them well, had warned
me that actresses were not women, since nature
had forgotten to give them hearts. He re-

SYLVIE

ferred, no doubt, to those of his own day, but
he related so many stories of his illusions and
disappointments, and displayed so many por-
traits upon ivory, charming medallions which
he afterwards used to adorn his snuff-boxes,
so many yellow love-letters and faded tokens,
each with its peculiar history, that I had come
to think ill of them as a class, without con-
sidering the march of time.

We were living then in a strange period,
such as often follows a revolution, or the de-
cline of a great reign. The heroic gallantry
of the Fronde, the drawing-room vice of the
Regency, the scepticism and mad orgies of the
Directory, were no more. It was a time of
mingled activity, indecision and idleness, bright
Utopian dreams, philosophic or religious aspira-
tions, vague ardour, dim instincts of rebirth,
weariness of past discords, uncertain hopes, —
an age somewhat like that of Peregrinus and
Apuleius. The material man yearned for the
roses which should regenerate him, from the
hands of the fair Isis; the goddess appeared to
us by night, in her eternal youth and purity,
inspiring in us remorse for the hours wasted
by day; and yet, ambition suited not our
years, while the greedy strife, the mad chase
in pursuit of honour and position, held us
aloof from every possible sphere of activity.
Our only refuge was the ivory tower of the

SYLVIE

poets whither we climbed higher and higher to
escape the crowd. Upon the heights to which
our masters guided us, we breathed at last the
pure air of solitude, we quaffed oblivion in the
golden cup of fable, we were drunk with
poetry and love. Love, alas ! of airy forms,
of rose and azure tints, of metaphysical phan-
toms. Seen nearer, the real woman repelled
our ingenuous youth which required her to
appear as a queen or a goddess, and above all,
inapproachable.

Some of our number held these platonic
paradoxes in light esteem, and athwart our
mystic reveries brandished at times the torch
of the deities of the underworld, that flames
through the darkness for an instant with its
train of sparks. Thus it chanced that on
quitting the theatre with the sense of bitter
sadness left by a vanished dream, I turned
with pleasure to a club where a party of us
used to sup, and where all depression yielded
to the inexhaustible vivacity of a few brilliant
wits, whose stormy gaiety at times rose to
sublimity. Periods of renewal or decadence
always produce such natures, and our discus-
sions often became so animated that timid
ones in the company would glance from the
window to see if the Huns, the Turkomans or
the Cossacks were not coming to put an end
to these disputations of sophists and rhetori-

SYLVIE

cians. " Let us drink, let us love, this is
wisdom ! " was the code of the younger mem-
bers. One of them said to me : " I have
noticed for some time that I always meet you
in the same theatre. For which one do you
go?" Which! why, it seemed impossible
to go there for another ! However, I con-
fessed the name. " Well," said my friend
kindly, "yonder is the happy man who has
just accompanied her home, and who, in
accordance with the rules of our clab, will
not perhaps seek her again till night is
over."

With slight emotion I turned toward the
person designated, and perceived a young man,
well dressed, with a pale, restless face, good
manners, and eyes full of gentle melancholy.
He flung a gold piece on the card-table and
lost it with indifference. " What is it to me? "
said I, "he or another?" There must be
someone, and he seemed worthy of her choice.
" And you ? " " I ? I chase a phantom, that is
all."

On my way out, I passed through the reading-
room and glanced carelessly at a newspaper, to
learn, I believe, the state of the stock market.
In the wreck of my fortunes, there chanced to
be a large investment in foreign securities, and
it was reported that, although long disowned,
they were about to be acknowledged ; — and,

SYLVIE

indeed, this had just happened in consequence
of a change in the ministry. The bonds were
quoted high, so I was rich again.

A single thought was occasioned by this sud-
den change of fortune, that the woman whom
I had loved so long, was mine, if I wished. My
ideal was within my grasp, or was it only one
more disappointment, a mocking misprint?
No, for the other papers gave the same figures,
while the sum which I had gained rose before
me like the golden statue of Moloch.

" What," thought I, " would that young man
say, if I were to take his place by the woman
whom he has left alone? "

I shrunk from the thought, and my pride
revolted. Not thus, not at my age, dare I slay
love with gold ! I will not play the tempter !
Besides, such an idea belongs to the past. Who
can tell me that this woman may be bought?
My eyes glanced idly over the journal in my
hand, and I noticed two lines: "Provincial
Bouquet Festival. To-morrow the archers of
Senlis will present the bouquet to the archers
of Loisy." These simple words aroused in me
an entirely new train of thought, stirring long-
forgotten memories of provincial days, faint
echoes of the artless joys of youth.

The horn and the drum were resounding afar
in hamlet and forest; the young maidens were
twining garlands as they sang, and binding

8

SYLVIE

nosegays with ribbon. A heavy wagon, drawn
by oxen, received their offerings as it passed,
and we, the children of that region, formed the
escort with our bows and arrows, assuming
the proud title of knights, — we did not know
that we were only preserving, from age to age,
an ancient feast of the Druids that had survived
later religions and monarchies.

II.

ADRIENNE.

I SOUGHT my bed, but not to sleep, and, lost
in a half-conscious revery, all my youth
passed before me. How often, in the border-
land of dreams, while yet the mind repels
their encroaching fancies, we are enabled to
review in a few moments, the important events
of a lifetime !

I saw a castle of the time of Henry IV.,
with its slate-covered turrets, its reddish front,
jutting corners of yellow stone, and a stretch
of green bordered by elms and lime-trees,
through whose foliage, the setting sun shot its
last fiery rays. Young girls were dancing in
a ring on the lawn, singing quaint old tunes
caught from their mothers, in a French whose
native purity bespoke the old country of
Valois, where for more than a thousand years
had throbbed the heart of France. I was the
only boy in the circle where I had led my
young companion, Sylvie, a little maid from

10

SYLVIE

the neighboring hamlet, so fresh and animated,
with her black eyes, regular features and
slightly sun-burned skin. I loved but her,
I had eyes but for her — till then ! I had
scarcely noticed in our round, a tall, beautiful
blonde, called Adrienne, when suddenly, in
following the figures of the dance, she was
left alone with me, in the centre of the ring;
we were of the same height, and they bade
me kiss her, while the dance and song went
whirling on, more merrily than before. When
I kissed her, I could not forbear pressing her
hand; her golden curls touched my cheek,
and from that moment, a new feeling pos-
sessed me.

The fair girl must sing a song to reclaim
her place in the dance, and we seated our-
selves about her. In a sweet, penetrating
voice, somewhat husky, as is common in that
country of mists and fogs, she sang one of
those old ballads full of love and sorrow,
which always carry the story of an imprisoned
princess, shut in a tower by her father, as a
punishment for loving. At the end of every
stanza, the melody died away in those quaver-
ing trills which enable young voices to simulate
so well the tremulous notes of old women.

While she sang, the shadows of the great
trees lengthened and the light of the young
moon fell full upon her, as she stood apart

from the rapt circle. The lawn was covered
with rising clouds of mist that trailed its white
wreaths over every blade of grass. We thought
ourselves in Paradise. The song ended and
no one dared break the stillness — at last I
rose and ran to the gardens where some
laurels were growing in large porcelain vases
painted in monochrome. I plucked two
branches which were twined into a crown,
bound with ribbon, and I placed it upon
Adrienne's brow, where its glossy leaves
gleamed above her fair locks in the pale
moonlight. She looked liked Dante's Beatrice,
smiling at the poet as he strayed on the con-
fines of the Blest Abodes.

Adrienne rose and, drawing up her slender
figure, bowed to us gracefully and ran back to
the castle; they said she was the child of a
race allied to the ancient kings of France, that
the blood of the Valois princes flowed in her
veins. Upon this festal day, she had been
permitted to join in our sports, but we were
not to see her again, for on the morrow she
would return to the convent of which she was
an inmate.

When I rejoined Sylvie, I found her weep-
ing because of the crown I had given to the
fair singer. I offered to make another for her,
but she would not consent, saying she did not
merit it. I vainly tried to vindicate myself,

12

SYLVIE

but she refused to speak as we went the
homeward way.

Paris soon recalled me to resume my studies,
and I bore with me the two-fold memory of a
tender friendship sadly broken, and of a love
uncertain and impossible, the source of pain-
ful musings which my college philosophy was
powerless to dispel.

Adrienne's face alone haunted me, a vision
of glory and beauty, sweetening and sharing
the hours of arduous study.

In the vacation of the following year, I
learned that this lovely girl, who had but
flitted past me, was destined by her family to a
religious life.

III.

RESOLVE.

THESE memories, recalled in my dreamy
revery, explained everything. This hope-
less passion for an actress, which took posses-
sion of me nightly from the hour when the
curtain rose until I fell asleep, was born of
my remembrance of Adrienne, the pale moon-
flower, as she glided over the green, a rose-
tinted vision enveloped in a cloud of misty
whiteness. The likeness of a face long years
forgotten was now distinctly outlined ; it was a
pencil-sketch, which time had blurred, devel-
oped into a painting, like the first drafts of the
old masters which delight us in a gallery, the
completed masterpiece being found elsewhere.
To fall in love with a nun in the guise of an
actress !... suppose they were one and the
same ! — it is enough to drive one mad, a fatal
mystery, drawing me on like a will o' the wisp
flitting over the rushes of a stagnant pool. Let
us keep a firm foothold on reality.

SYLVIE .

Sylvie, too, whom I loved so dearly, why
had I forgotten her for three long years ? She
was a charming girl, the prettiest maiden in
Loisy; surely she still lives, pure and good.
I can see her window, with the creeper twin-
ing around the rose-bush, and the cage of
linnets hanging on the left; I can hear the
click of her bobbins and her favourite song :

La belle etait assise

*Ptt^5 du ruisseau coulant . . . /

She is still waiting for me. Who would wed
her, so poor? The men of her native village
are sturdy peasants with rough hands and
gaunt, tanned faces. I, the " little Parisian,"
had won her heart in my frequent visits near
Loisy, to my poor uncle, now dead. For the
past three years I have been squandering like
a lord the modest inheritance left by him,
which might have sufficed for a lifetime, and
Sylvie, I know, would have helped me save it.
Chance returns me a portion, it is not too late,

What is she doing now ? She must be
asleep. . . . No, she is not asleep ; to-day is
the Feast of the Bow, the only one in the year
when the dance goes on all night. . . . She
is there. What time is it? I had no watch.

Amongst a profusion of ornaments, which
it was then the fashion to collect, in order to

i The maiden was sitting
Beside the swift stream.

restore the local colour of an old-time interior,
there gleamed with freshly polished lustre,
one of those tortoise-shell clocks of the Re-
naissance, whose gilded dome, surmounted by
a figure of Time, was supported by caryatides
in the style of the Medici, resting in their
turn upon rearing steeds. The historic Diana,
leaning upon her stag, was in bas-relief under
the face, where, upon an inlaid background,
enameled figures marked the hours. The
works, no doubt excellent, had not been put
in motion for two centuries. It was not to
tell the hour that I bought this time-piece in
Touraine.

I went down to the porter's lodge to find
that his clock marked one in the morning.
" In four hours I can be at Loisy," thought I.

Five or six cabs were still standing on the
Place du Palais Royal, awaiting the gamblers
and clubmen. "To Loisy," I said to the
nearest driver. " Where is it ? " " Near
Senlis, eight leagues distant." " I will take
you to the posting station," said the cabman,
more alert than I. ^

How dreary the Flanders road is by night !
It gains beauty only as it approaches the
belt of the forest. Two monotonous rows of
trees, taking on the semblance of distorted
figures, rise ever before the eye ; in the dis-
tance, patches of verdure and cultivated land,

16

SYLVIE

bounded on the left by the blue hills of Mont-
morency, Ecouen and Luzarches. Here is
Gonesse, an ordinary little town, full of mem-
ories of the League and the Fronde.

Beyond Louvres is a road lined with apple-
trees, whose white blossoms I have often seen
unfolding in the night, like stars of the earth —
it is the shortest way to the village. While
the carriage climbs the slope, let me recall old
memories of the days when I came here so
often.

17

IV.
A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.

SEVERAL years had passed, and only a
childish memory was left me of that
meeting with Adrienne in front of the castle.
I was again at Loisy on the annual feast, and
again I mingled with the knights of the bow,
taking my place in the same company as of
old. The festival had been arranged by young
people belonging to the old families, who still
own the solitary castles, despoiled rather by
time than revolution, hidden here and there
in the forest. From Chantilly, Compiegne
and Senlis, joyous companies hastened to join
the rustic train of archers. After the long
parade through hamlet and village, after mass
in the church, contests of skill and awarding
of prizes, the victors were invited to a feast
prepared upon an island in the centre of one of
the tiny lakes, fed by the Nonette and the
Theve. Boats, gay with flags, conveyed us
to this island, chosen on account of an old

18

SYLVIE

temple with pillars, destined to serve as a ban-
quet hall. Here, as in Hermenonville, the
country side is sown with these frail structures,
designed by philosophical millionaires, in ac-
cordance with the prevailing taste of the close
of the eighteenth century. Probably this
temple was originally dedicated to Urania.
Three pillars had fallen, bearing with them a
portion of the architrave, but the space within
had been cleared, and garlands hung between
the columns, quite rejuvenated this modern
'ruin, belonging rather to the paganism of
Boufflers and Chaulieu than of Horace. The
sail on the lake was perhaps designed to re-
call Watteau's "Voyage to Cythera," the
illusion being marred only by our modern
dress. The immense bouquet was borne from
its wagon and placed in a boat, accompanied
by the usual escort of young girls dressed in
white, and this graceful pageant, the survival
of an ancient custom, was mirrored in the
still waters that flowed around the island,
gleaming in the red sunlight with its haw-
thorn thickets and colonnades.

All the boats soon arrived, and the basket
of flowers borne in state, adorned the centre
of the table, around which we took our places,
the most fortunate beside a young girl; to
win this favour it was enough to know her rela-
tives, which explains why I found myself by

SYLVIE

Sylvie, whose brother had already joined me
in the march, and reproached me for neglect-
ing to visit them. I excused myself by the
plea that my studies kept me in Paris, and
averred that I had come with that intention.

" No," said Sylvie, " I am sure he has for-
gotten me. We are only village folk, and a
Parisian is far above us." I tried to stop her
mouth with a kiss, but she still pouted, and
her brother had to intercede before she would
offer me her cheek with an indifferent air. I
took no pleasure in this salute, a favour ac-
corded to plenty of others, for in that patri-
archal country where a greeting is bestowed
upon every passing stranger, a kiss means only
an exchange of courtesies between honest
people.

To crown the enjoyment of the day, a sur-
prise had been contrived, and, at the close of
the repast, a wild swan, hitherto imprisoned
beneath the flowers, soared into the air, bear-
ing aloft on his powerful wings, a tangle of
wreaths and garlands, which were scattered in
every direction. While he darted joyously
toward the last bright gleams of the sun, we
tried to seize the falling chaplets, to crown our
fair neighbours. I was so fortunate as to
secure one of the finest, and Sylvie smilingly
granted me a kiss more tender than the last,
by which I perceived that I had now redeemed

20

SYLVIE

the memory of a former occasion. She had
grown so beautiful that my present admiration
was without reserve, and I no longer recog-
nised in her the little village maid, whom I
had slighted for one more skilled in the graces
of the world. Sylvie had gained in every re-
spect; her black eyes, seductive from child-
hood, had become irresistibly fascinating, and
there was something Athenian in her arching
brows, together with the sudden smile light-
ing up her quiet, regular features. I admired
this classic profile contrasting with the mere
prettiness of her companions. Her taper
fingers, round, white arms and slender waist
changed her completely, and I could not re-
frain from telling her of the transformation,
hoping thus to hide my long unfaithfulness.
Everything favoured me, the delightful in-
fluences of the feast, her brother's regard, the
evening hour, and even the spot chosen by a
tasteful fancy to celebrate the stately rites of
ancient gallantry. We escaped from the dance
as soon as possible, to compare recollections
of our childhood and to gaze, side by side,
with dreamy pleasure, upon the sunset sky re-
flected in the calm waters. Sylvie's brother
had to tear us from the contemplation of this
peaceful scene by the unwelcome summons
that it was time to start for the distant village
where she dwelt.

21

V.
THE VILLAGE.

THEY lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's
lodge, whither I accompanied them, and
then turned back toward Montagny, where I
was staying with my uncle. Leaving the
highway to cross a little wood that divides

Loisy from Saint S , I plunged into a deep

track skirting the forest of Hermenonville. I
thought it would lead me to the walls of a con-
vent, which I had to follow for a quarter of a
league. The moon, from time to time, con-
cealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the
grey rocks, and the heath which lay thick
upon the ground as I advanced. Right and
left stretched a pathless forest, and before me
rose the Druid altars guarding the memory of
the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans.
From these ancient piles I discerned the dis-
tant lakelets glistening like mirrors in the
misty plain, but I could not distinguish the
one where the feast was held.

SYLVIE

The air was so balmy, that I determined to
lie down upon the heath and wait for the
dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by
one, the neighbouring landmarks. On the left
stretched the long line of the convent of Saint

S , then, on the opposite side of the valley,

La Butte aux Gens d'Armes, with the shat-
tered ruins of the ancient Carlovingian palace.
Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling
walls of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out
against the horizon. Further on, the manor
of Pontarme, surrounded as in olden times,
by a moat, began to reflect the first fires of
dawn, while on the south appeared the tall
keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of
Bertrand Fosse, on the slopes of Montmeliant.

The night had passed pleasantly, and I was
thinking only of Sylvie, but the sight of the
convent suggested the idea that it might be
the one where Adrienne lived. The sound
of the morning bell was still ringing in my
ears and had probably awakened me. The
thought came to me, for a moment, that by
climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a
peep over the walls, but on reflection, I dis-
missed it as profane. The sun with its rising
beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving
only the rosy features of Sylvie. " I will go
and awaken her," I said to myself, and again
I started in the direction of Loisy.

SYLVIE

Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is
the village, twenty cottages whose walls are
festooned with creepers and climbing roses.
A group of women, with red kerchiefs on
their heads, are spinning in the early light,
in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not
among them. She is almost a young lady,
now she makes dainty lace, but her family re-
main simple villagers. I ran up to her room
without exciting surprise, to find that she had
been up for a long time, and was busily plying
her bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against
the square green cushion on her knees. " So,
it is you, lazybones," she said with her divine
smile; " I am sure you are just out of bed."

I told her how I had lost my way in the
woods and had passed the night in the open
air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to
pity me.

" If you are not too tired, I will take you
for another ramble. We will go to see my
grand-aunt at Othys."

Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously
to smooth her hair before the mirror, and put
on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling
with innocent gaiety.

Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the
Theve, through meadows sprinkled with daisies
and buttercups; then we skirted the woods of
Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams

SYLVIE

and thickets to shorten the road. Blackbirds
were whistling in the trees, and tomtits, startled
at our approach, flew joyously from the bushes.

Now and then we spied beneath our feet
the periwinkles which Rousseau loved, putting
forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of
twin leaves, a network of tendrils which
arrested4 the light steps of my companion.
Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher
of Geneva, she sought here and there for
fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the
New Heloise, and repeated passages from it,
which I knew by heart.

"Is it pretty?" she asked.

"It is sublime."

" Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine? "

" It is more tender."

" Well, then," said she, " I must read it. I
will tell my brother to bring it to me the next
time he goes to Senlis."

I went on reciting portions of the Heloise,
while Sylvie picked strawberries.

VI.

OTHYS.

WHEN we had left the forest, we found
great tufts of purple foxglove, and
Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for
her aunt who loved to have flowers in her
room.

Only a stretch of level country now lay
between us and Othys. The village church-
spire pointed heavenward against the blue
hills that extend from Montmeliant to Dam-
martin. The Theve again rippled over the
stones, narrowing towards its source, where it
forms a tiny lake which slumbers in the
meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris.
We soon reached the first houses where Sylvie's
aunt lived in a little cottage of rough stone,
adorned with a trellis of hop -vine and Virginia
creeper. Her only support came from a few
acres of land which the village folk cultivated
for her, now her husband was dead. The
coming of her niece set the house astir.

26

SYLVIE

"Good morning, aunt; here are your chil-
dren! "cried Sylvie; "and we are very hun-
gry." She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her
the flowers, and then turned to present me,
saying, " He is my sweetheart."

I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who ex-
claimed, " He is a fine lad ! why, he has light
hair!" "He has very pretty hair," said
Sylvie. "That does not last," returned her
aunt; " but you have time enough before you,
and you are dark, so you are well matched."

" You must give him some breakfast," said
Sylvie, and she went peeping into cupboards
and pantry, finding milk, brown bread and
sugar which she hastily set upon the table,
together with the plates and dishes of crockery
adorned with staring flowers and birds of
brilliant plumage. A large bowl of Creil china,
filled with strawberries swimming in milk,
formed the centrepiece, and after she had
raided the garden for cherries and goose-
berries, she arranged two vases of flowers,
placing one at each end of the white cloth.
Just then, her aunt made a sensible speech :
" All this is only for dessert. Now, you must
let me set to work." She took down the
frying-pan and threw a fagot upon the hearth.
"No, no; I shall not let you touch it," she
said decidedly to Sylvie, who was trying to
help her. " Spoiling your pretty fingers that

SYLVIE

make finer lace than Chantilly! You gave
me some, and I know what lace is."

" Oh, yes, aunt, and if you have some left,
I can use it for a pattern."

"Well, go look upstairs; there may be
some in my chest of drawers."

" Give me the keys," returned Sylvie.

"Nonsense," cried her aunt; "the drawers
are open." " No; there is one always locked."
While the good woman was cleaning the fry-
ing-pan, after having passed it over the fire to
warm it, Sylvie unfastened from her belt a
little key of wrought steel and showed it to
me in triumph.

I followed her swiftly up the wooden stair-
case that led to the room above. Oh youth,
and holy age! Who could sully by an evil
thought the purity of first love in this shrine
of hallowed memories? The portrait of a
young man of the good old times, with laugh-
ing black eyes and rosy lips, hung in an oval
gilt frame at the head of the rustic bed. He
wore the uniform of a gamekeeper of the
house of Conde; his somewhat martial bear-
ing, ruddy, good-humoured face, and powdered
hair drawn back from the clear brow, gave
the charm of youth and simplicity to this
pastel, destitute, perhaps, of any artistic merit.
Some obscure artist, bidden to the hunting
parties of the prince, had done his best to

28

SYLVIE

portray the keeper and his bride who appeared
in another medallion, arch and winning, in
her open bodice laced with ribbons, teasing
with piquant frown, a bird perched upon her
finger. It was, however, the same good old
dame, at that moment bending over the
hearth-fire to cook. It reminded me of the
fairies in a spectacle who hide under wrinkled
masks, their real beauty revealed in the clos-
ing scene when the Temple of Love appears
with its whirling sun darting magic fires.

"Oh, dear old aunt!" I exclaimed, "how
pretty you were ! "

" And I? " asked Sylvie, who had succeeded
in opening the famous drawer which con-
tained an old-fashioned dress of taffeta, so
stiff that the heavy folds creaked under her
touch. " I will see if it fits me," she said; " I
shall look like an old fairy ! " " Like the
fairy of the legends, ever young," thought I.

Sylvie had already unfastened her muslin
gown and let it fall to her feet. She bade me
hook the rich robe which clung tightly to her
slender figure.

"Oh, what ridiculous sleeves! " she cried;
and yet, the lace frills displayed to advantage
her bare arms, and her bust was outlined by
the corsage of yellow tulle and faded ribbon
which had concealed but little the vanished
charms of her aunt.

SYLVIE

" Come, make haste ! " said Sylvie. " Do
you not know how to hook a dress ? " She
looked like the village bride of Greuze. " You
ought to have some powder," said I. " We
will find some," and she turned to search the
drawers anew. Oh! what treasures, what
sweet odours, what gleams of light from bril-
liant hues and modest ornaments! Two
mother-of-pearl fans slightly broken, some
pomade boxes covered with Chinese designs,
an amber necklace and a thousand trifles,
among them two little white slippers with
sparkling buckles of Irish diamonds. " Oh !
I will put them on," cried Sylvie, "if I find
the embroidered stockings."

A moment more, and we were unrolling a
pair of pink silk stockings with green clocks;
but the voice of the old aunt, accompanied by
the hiss of the frying-pan, suddenly recalled
us to reality. " Go down quickly," said
Sylvie, who refused to let me help her finish
dressing. Her aunt was just turning into a
platter the contents of the frying-pan, a slice
of bacon and some eggs. Presently, I heard
Sylvie calling me from the staircase. " Dress
yourself as soon as possible," and, completely
attired herself, she pointed to the wedding
clothes of the gamekeeper, spread out upon
the chest. In an instant I was transformed
into a bridegroom of the last century. Sylvie

SYLVIE

waited for me on the stairs, and we went
down, arm in arm. Her aunt gave a cry
when she saw us. " Oh, my children ! " she
exclaimed, beginning to weep and then smiling
through her tears. It was the image of her
own youth, a cruel, yet charming vision. We
sat beside her, touched, almost saddened, but
soon our mirth came back, for after the first
surprise, the thoughts of the good old dame
reverted to the stately festivities of her wed-
ding day. She even recalled the old-fashioned
songs chanted responsively from one end of
the festal board to the other, and the quaint
nuptial hymn whose strains attended the
wedded pair when they withdrew after the
dance. We repeated these couplets with
their simple rhymes, flowery and passionate as
the Song of Solomon. We were bride and
bridegroom the space of one fair summer
morn.

VII.
CHAALIS.

IT u four o'clock in the morning; the road
winds through a hollow and comes out on
high ground; the carriage passes Orry, then
La Chapelle. On the left is a road that skirts
the forest of Hallate. Sylvie's brother took
me through there one evening in his covered
cart, to attend some local gathering on the
Eve of Saint Bartholomew, I believe. Through
the woods, along unfrequented ways, the little
horse sped as if hastening to a witches' sab-
bath. We struck the highway again at Mont-
I'Ev&que, and a few moments later pulled up
at the keeper's lodge of the old abbey of
Chaalis — Chaalis, another memory !

This ancient retreat of the emperors offers
nothing worthy of admiration, save its ruined
cloisters with their Byzantine arcades, the last
of which are still mirrored in the lake —
crumbling fragments of the abodes of piety,
formerly attached to this demesne, known in

SYLVIE

olden times as "Charlemagne's farms." In
this quiet spot, far from the stir of highways
and cities, religion has retained distinctive
traces of the prolonged sojourn of the
Cardinals of the House of Este during the
time of the Medici; a shade of poetic gal-
lantry still lingers about its ceremonial, a per-
fume of the Renaissance breathing beneath
the delicately moulded arches of the chapels
decorated by Italian artists. The faces of
saints and angels outlined in rose tints upon
a vaulted roof of pale blue produce an effect
of pagan allegory, which recalls the senti-
mentality of Petrarch and the weird mysticism
of Francesco Colonna. Sylvie's brother and I
were intruders in the festivities of the evening.
A person of noble birth, at that time pro-
prietor of the demesne, had invited the neigh-
bouring families to witness a kind of allegorical
spectacle in which some of the inmates of the
convent close by were to take part. It was
not intended to recall the tragedies of Saint
Cyr, but went back to the first lyric conteits,
introduced into France by the Valois princes.
What I saw enacted resembled an ancient
mystery. The costumes, consisting of long
robes, presented no variety save in colour, blue,
hyacinth or gold. The scene lay between
angels on the ruins of the world. Each voice
chanted one of the glories of the now extinct

33

SYLVIE

globe, and the Angel of Death set forth the
causes of its destruction. A spirit rose from
the abyss, holding a flaming sword, and con-
voked the others to glorify the power of
Christ, the conqueror of hell. This spirit was
Adrienne, transfigured by her costume as she
was already by her vocation. The nimbus
of gilded cardboard encircling her angelic
head seemed to us a circle of light; her voice
had gained in power and compass, and an in-
finite variety of Italian trills relieved with their
bird-like warbling the stately severity of the
recitative.

In recalling these details, I come to the
point of asking myself, " Are they real or have
I dreamed them? " Sylvie's brother was not
quite sober that evening. We spent a few
minutes in the keeper's house, where I was
much impressed by a cygnet displayed above
the door, and within there were tall chests of
carved walnut, a large clock in its case and
some archery prizes, bows and arrows, above
a red and green target. A droll-looking
dwarf in a Chinese cap, holding a bottle in
one hand and a ring in the other, seemed to
warn the marksmen to take good aim. I think
the dwarf was cut out of sheet-iron. Did I real-
ly see Adrienne as surely as I marked these
details? I am, however, certain that it was
the son of the keeper who conducted us to the

34

SYLVIE

hall where the representation took place ; we
were seated near the door behind a numerous
company who seemed deeply moved. It was the
feast of Saint Bartholomew — a day strangely
linked with memories of the Medici, whose
arms, impaled with those of the House of
Este, adorned these old walls. Is it an
obsession, the way these memories haunt me?
Fortunately the carriage stops here on the
road to Plessis; I leave the world of dreams
and find myself with only a fifteen-minutes
walk to reach Loisy by forest paths.

35

VIII.
THE BALL AT LOISY.

I ENTERED the ball of Loisy at that sad yet
pleasing hour when the lights flicker and
grow dim at the approach of dawn. A faint
bluish tinge crept over the tops of the lime-
trees, sunk in shadow below. The rustic flute
no longer contended so gayly with the trills of
the nightingale.- The dancers all looked pale,
and among the dishevelled groups I distin-
guished with difficulty any familiar faces.
Finally, I recognized a tall girl, Sylvie's friend
Lise.

"We have not seen you for a long time,
Parisian," said she.

" Yes; a long time."

"And you come so late? "

" By coach."

"And you traveled slowly ! "

«* I came to see Sylvie; is she still here? "

" She will stay till morning; she loves to
dance."

SYLVIE

In a moment I was beside her; she looked
tired, but her black eyes sparkled with the
same Athenian smile as of old. A young
man stood near her, but she refused by a ges-
ture to join the next country-dance, and he
bowed to her and withdrew.

It began to grow light, and we left the ball
hand in hand. The flowers hung lifeless and
faded in Sylvie's loosened tresses, and the
nosegay at her bosom dropped its petals on
the crumpled lace made by her skilful hands.
I offered to walk home with her; it was broad
day, but the sky was cloudy. The Theve
murmured on our left, leaving at every curve
a little pool of still water where yellow and
white pond-lilies blossomed, and lake star-
worts, like Easter daisies, spread their delicate
broidery. The plain was covered with hay-
ricks whose fragrance seemed wafted to my
brain, affecting me as the fresh scent of the
woods and hawthorn thickets had done in the
past. This time neither of us thought of
crossing the meadows.

"Sylvie," said I, "you no longer love me."

She sighed. "My friend," she continued,
" you must console yourself, since things do not
happen as we wish in this world. You once men-
tioned the New Heloise; I read it, and shuddered
when I found these words, at the beginning : 'Any
young girl who reads this book is lost.' How-

37

SYLVIE

ever, I kept on, trusting in my discretion. Do
you remember the day we put on the wedding
clothes, at my aunt's house? The engravings
in the book also represented lovers dressed in
olden costumes, so that to me you were Saint-
Preux and I was Julie. Ah ! why did you not
come back then? But they said you were in
Italy. You must have seen there far prettier
girls than I ! "

"Not one, Sylvie, with your expression or
the pure lines of your profile. You do not
know it, but you are a nymph of antiquity.
Besides, the woods here are as beautiful as
those about Rome. There are granite masses
yonder, not less sublime, and a cascade which
falls from the rocks like that of Terni. I saw
nothing there to regret here."

"And in Paris? " she asked.

"In Paris — " I shook my head, but did
not answer. Suddenly I remembered the
vain shadow which I had pursued so long.
" Sylvie," cried I, " let us stop here, will you? "

I threw myself at her feet, and with hoj;
tears I confessed my irresolution and fickleness;
I evoked the fatal spectre that haunted my days.

" Save me ! " I implored, " I come back to
you forever."

She turned toward me with emotion, but at
this moment our conversation was interrupted
by a loud burst of laughter, and Sylvie's brother

SYLVIE

rejoined us with the boisterous mirth always
attending a rustic festival, and which the abun-
dant refreshments of the evening had stimu-
lated beyond measure. He called to the
gallant of the ball, who was concealed in a
thicket, but hastened to us. This youth was
little firmer on his feet than his companion,
and appeared more embarrassed by the presence
of a Parisian than by Sylvie. His candid look
and awkward deference prevented any dislike
on my part, on account of his dancing so late
with Sylvie at the ball; I did not consider
him a dangerous rival.

" We must go in," said Sylvie to her brother.
"We shall meet again soon," she said, as she
offered me her cheek to kiss, at which the lover
was not offended.

39

IX.

HERMENONVILLE.

NOT feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to
Montagny to revisit my uncle's house.
Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its
yellow front and green shutters. Everything
looked as before, but I was obliged to go to
the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters
once open, I surveyed with emotion the old
furniture, polished from time to time, to pre-
serve its lustre, the tall cupboard of walnut,
two Flemish paintings said to be the work of an
ancient artist, our ancestor, some large prints
after Boucher, and a whole series of framed
engravings representing scenes from " Emile "
and the " New Heloise " by Moreau; on the
table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted,
that I remembered alive, as the companion of
my forest rambles, perhaps the last " Carlin,"
for it had belonged to that breed now extinct.
" As for the parrot," said the farmer, " he is
still alive, and I took him home with me."

40

SYLVIE

The garden offered a magnificent picture of
the growth of wild vegetation, and there in a
corner was the plot I had tended as a child.
A shudder'came over me as I entered the study,
which still contained the little library of choice
books, familiar friends of him who was no
more, and where upon his desk lay antique
relics, vases and Roman medals found in the
garden, — a local collection, the source of much
pleasure to him.

" Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the
farmer. The parrot clamoured for his break-
fast, as in his best days, and gave me a know-
ing look from his round eye peering out from
the wrinkled skin, like the wise glances of
the old.

Full of sad thoughts awakened by my re-
turn to this cherished spot, I felt that I must
again see Sylvie, the only living tie which
bound me to that region, and once more I
took the road to Loisy. It was the middle of
the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out
by the night of merry-making. It occurred to
me that it might divert my thoughts to stroll
to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the
forest road. It was fine summer weather, and
on setting out I was delighted by the fresh-
ness and verdure of the path which seemed
like the avenue of a park. The green branches
of the great oaks were relieved by the white

trunks and rustling leaves of the birches. The
birds were silent, and I heard no sound but
the woodpecker tapping the trees to find a
hollow for her nest. At one time I was in
danger of losing my way, the characters being
wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served
to distinguish the roads. Passing the Desert
on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where
I found the benches of the old men still in
place. All the associations of ancient philos-
ophy, revived by the former owner of the
demesne, crowded upon me, at the sight of
this picturesque realisation of " Anacharsis "
and " Emile."

When I caught sight of the waters of the
lake sparkling through the branches of willows
and hazels, I recognised a spot which I had
often visited with my uncle. Here stands to
this day, sheltered by a group of pines, the
Temple of Philosophy which its founder had
not the good fortune to complete. It is built
in the form of the temple of the Tiburtine
Sibyl, and displays with pride the names of
all the great thinkers from Montaigne and
Descartes to Rousseau. This unfinished struc-
ture is now but a ruin around which the ivy
twines its graceful tendrils, while brambles
force their way between its disjointed steps.
When but a child, I witnessed the celebra-
tions here, where young girls, dressed in white,

SYLVIE

came to receive prizes for scholarship and
good conduct. Where are the roses that
girdled the hillside? Hidden by brier and
eglantine, they are fast losing all traces of
cultivation. As for the laurels, have they
been cut down, according to the old song of
the maidens who no longer care to roam the
forest? No! these shrubs from sweet Italy
have withered beneath our unfriendly skies.
Happily, the privet of Virgil still thrives as if
to emphasize the words of the Master, in-
scribed above the door, Rerum cognoscere cau-
sas. Yes! like so many others, this temple
crumbles, and man, weary or thoughtless,
passes it by, while indifferent nature reclaims
the soil for which art contended, but the thirst
for knowledge is eternal, the mainspring of
all power and activity.

Here are the poplars of the island and the
empty tomb of Rousseau. O Sage ! thou
gavest us the milk of the strong and we were
too weak to receive it ! We have forgotten
thy lessons which our fathers knew, and we have
lost the meaning of thy words, the last faint
echoes of ancient wisdom ! Still, let us not
despair, and like thee, in thy last moments,
let us turn our eyes to the sun !

I revisited the castle, the quiet waters about
it, the cascade which complains among the
rocks, the causeway that unites the two parts

43

SYLVIE

of the village with the four dove-cotes that
mark the corners, and the green that stretches
beyond like a prairie, above which rise wooded
slopes; the tower of Gabrielle is reflected from
afar in the waters of an artificial lake studded
with ephemeral blossoms; the scum is seeth-
ing, the insects hum. It is best to escape the
noxious vapours and seek the rocks and sand
of the desert and the waste lands where the
pink heath blooms beside green ferns. How
sad and lonely it all seems ! In by-gone days,
Sylvie's enchanting smile, her merry pranks
and glad cries enlivened every spot ! She was
then a wild little creature with bare feet and
sunburned skin, in spite of the straw hat
whose long strings floated loosely amid her
dark locks. We used to go to the Swiss farm
to drink milk, and they said : " How pretty
your sweetheart is, little Parisian ! " Ah ! no
peasant lad could have danced with her in
those days ! She would have none but me for
her partner, at the yearly Feast of the Bow.

44

X.

BIG CURLY-HEAD.

I WENT back to Loisy and they were all
awake. Sylvie was dressed like a young
lady, almost in the fashion of the city. She
led me up to her room with all her old sim-
plicity. Her bright eyes smiled as charmingly
as ever, but the decided arch of her brows
made her at times look serious. The room
was simply decorated, but the furniture was
modern : a mirror in a gilt frame had replaced
the old-fashioned looking-glass where an idyl-
lic shepherd was depicted offering a nest to a
blue and pink shepherdess; the four-post bed,
modestly hung with flowered chintz, was suc-
ceeded by a little walnut couch with net
curtains; canaries occupied the cage at the
window where once there were linnets. I was
impatient to leave this room, where nothing
spoke to me of the past. " Shall you make
lace to-day ? " I asked Sylvie. " Oh, I do not
make lace now; there is no demand for it

45

here, and even at Chantilly the factory is
closed." "What is your work then?" She
brought forward, from the corner of the room,
an iron tool which resembled a long pair of
pincers.

"What is that?"

" It is called the machine and is used to
hold the leather in place while the gloves are
sewed."

"Then you are a glove-maker, Sylvie?"

"Yes, we work here for Dammartin; it
pays well now, but I shall not work to-day;
let us go wherever you like." I glanced to-
wards Othys, but she shook her head, and I
understood that the old aunt was no more.
Sylvie called a little boy and bade him saddle
an ass. " I am still tired from yesterday," she
said, " but the ride will do me good; let us go
to Chaaiis."

We set out through the forest, followed by
the boy armed with a branch. Sylvie soon
wished to stop, and I kissed her as I led her
to a seat. Our conversation could no longer
be very intimate. I had to talk of my life in
Paris, my travels. ..." How can anyone go
so far?" she demanded. "It seems strange
to me, when I look at you."

"Oh! of course,"

" Well, admit that you were not so pretty in
the old days."

SYLVIE

" I cannot tell."

" Do you remember when we were children
and you the tallest? "

"And you the wisest? "

"Oh! Sylvie!"

" They put us on an ass, one in each pan-
nier."

" And we said thee and thou to each other ?
Do you remember how you taught me to
catch crawfish under the bridges over the
Nonette and the Theve? "

" Do you remember your foster-brother who
pulled you out of the water one day? "

"Big Curly-head? It was he who told
me to go in."

I made haste to change the subject, because
this recollection had brought vividly to mind
the time when I used to go into the country,
wearing a little English coat which made the
peasants laugh. Sylvie was the only one who
liked it, but I did not venture to remind her
of such a juvenile opinion. For some reason,
my mind turned to the old aunt's wedding
clothes in which we had arrayed ourselves,
and I asked what had become of them.

"Oh! poor aunt," cried Sylvie; "she lent
me her gown to wear to the carnival at Dam-
martin, two years ago, and the next year she
died, dear, old aunt ! " She sighed and the
tears came, so I could not inquire how it

47

SYLVIE

chanced that she went to a masquerade, but
I perceived that, thanks to her skill, Sylvie was
no longer a peasant girl. Her parents had not
risen above their former station, and she lived
with them, scattering plenty around her like
an industrious fairy.

XL
RETURN.

THE outlook widened when we left the
forest and we found ourselves near the
lake of Chaalis. The galleries of the cloister,
the chapel with its pointed arches, the feudal
tower and the little castle which had sheltered
the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were
bathed in the crimson glow of evening against
the dark background of the forest.

" Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is
it not? " said Sylvie. "And who has told you
of Walter Scott ? " I inquired. " You must
have read much in the past three years ! As
for me, I try to forget books, and what de-
lights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey
where, as little children, we played hide and
seek among the ruins. Do you remember,
Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper
told us the story of the Red Monks ? "

" Oh, do not speak of it ! "

" Well then, sing me the song of the fair

49

maid under the white rose-bush, who was
stolen from her father's garden."

"Nobody sings that now."

"Is it possible that you have become a
musician?"

" Perhaps/'

"Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you
sing airs from operas ! "

" Why should you complain ? "

"Because I loved the old songs and you
have forgotten them."

Sylvie warbled a few notes of a grand air
from a modern opera . . . She phrased!

We turned away from the lakeside and ap-
proached the green bordered with lime-trees
and elms, where we had so often danced. I
had the conceit to describe the old Carlovin-
gian walls and to decipher the armorial bear-
ings of the House of Este.

" And you ! How much more you have
read than I, and how learned you have be-
come ! " said Sylvie. I was vexed by her
tone of reproach, as I had all the way been
seeking a favourable opportunity to resume the
tender confidences of the morning, but what
could I say, accompanied by a donkey and
a very wide-awake lad who pressed nearer and
nearer for the pleasure of hearing a Parisian
talk ? Then I displayed my lack of tact, by
relating the vision of Chaalis which I recalled

5°

SYLVIE

so vividly. I led Sylvie into the very hall of
the castle where I had heard Adrienne sing.
"Oh, let me hear you!" I besought her;
"let your loved voice ring out beneath these
arches and put to flight the spirit that tor-
ments me, be it angel or demon ! " She re-
peated the words and sang after me :

"tAngts, descende^ promptcment
,Aufond dupurgatoire . . ." l

"It is very sad!" she cried.

"It is sublime! An air from Porpora, I
think, with words translated in the present cen-
tury."

"I do not know," she replied.

We came home through the valley, following
the Charlepont road which the peasants, without
regard to etymology, persistently called Ch&lle-
pont. The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary
of riding, leaned upon my arm, while I tried
to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know
not why, could find only trivial words or stilted
phrases from some romance that Sylvie might
have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true
classic style, and she was occasionally amazed
by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having reached

the walls of Saint S we had to look well to

our steps, on account of the numerous stream-
lets winding through the damp marshes.

1 Angels descend without delay
To dread abyss of purgatory.

SYLVIE

"What has become of the nun?" I asked
suddenly.

' ' You give me no peace with your nun ! Ah,
well ! it is a sad story ! " Not a word more
would Sylvie say.

Do women really feel that certain words
come from the lips rather than the heart? It
does not seem probable, to see how readily
they are deceived, and what an inexplicable
choice they usually make — there are men who
play the comedy of love so well ! I never could
accustom myself to it, although I know some
women lend themselves wittingly to the decep-
tion. A love that dates from childhood is,
however, sacred, and Sylvie, whom I had seen
grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not
betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to
me. "At this very hour, I might be at the
theatre. What is Aurelie (that was the name
of the actress) playing to-night? No doubt
the part of the Princess in the new play. How
touching she is in the third act ! And in the
love scene of the second with that wrinkled
actor who plays the lover ! "

"Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she
began to sing :

"*A eDantmartin Vy a trois bettes filles :
L'y en a %'une plus belle que lejour . . ."l

1 At Dammartin there are three fair maids,
And one of them is fairer than day.

SYLVIE

" Little tease ! " I cried, " you know you
remember the old songs."

" If you would come here oftener, I would
try to remember more of them," she said;
" but we must think of realities; you have your
affairs at Paris, I have my work here; let us go
in early, for I must rise with the sun to-morrow."

53

XII.
FATHER DODU.

I WAS about to reply, to fall at her feet and
offer her my uncle's house which I could
purchase, as the little estate had not been ap-
portioned among the numerous heirs, but just
then we reached Loisy, where supper awaited
us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patri-
archal odour. Neighbours had been invited to
celebrate the day after the feast, and I recog-
nised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood-
cutter who used to amuse or frighten us, in
the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier,
gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by
turns, Father Dodu made clocks and turnspits
in his leisure moments. For a long time he
acted as guide to the English tourists at Her-
menonville, and while he recounted the last
moments of the philosopher, would lead them
to Rousseau's favourite spots for meditation.
He was the little boy employed to classify the
herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from

54

which the sage pressed the juice into his cup
of coffee. The landlord of the Golden Cross
contested this point and a lasting feud re-
sulted. Father Dodu had once borne the
reproach of possessing some very innocent
secrets, such as how to cure cows by saying a
rhyme backwards and making the sign of the
cross with the left foot, but he had renounced
these superstitions — thanks, he declared, to
his conversations with Jean Jacques.

"That you, little Parisian?" said Father
Dodu; " have you come to carry off our pretty
girls? "

"I, Father Dodu?"

" You take them into the woods when
the wolf is away ! "

" Father Dodu, you are the wolf."

" I was as long as I could find sheep, but
at present I meet only goats, and they know
how to take care of themselves ! As for you,
why, you are all rascals in Paris. Jean Jac-
ques was right when he said, ' Man grows cor-
rupt in the poisonous air of cities.' "

"Father Dodu, you know very well that
men become corrupt everywhere."

"Father Dodu began to roar out a drink-
ing song, and it was impossible to stop him at
a questionable couplet that everyone knew by
heart. Sylvie would not sing, in spite of our
entreaties, on the plea that it was no longer

55

customary to sing at table. I had already
noticed the lover of the ball, seated at her
left, and his round face and tumbled hair
seemed familiar. He rose and stood behind
me, saying, "Have you forgotten me, Pari-
sian?" A good woman who came back to
dessert after serving us, whispered in my ear :
"Do you not recognize your foster-brother?"
Without this warning, I should have made
myself ridiculous. "Ah, it is Big Curly-head! "
I cried; "the very same who pulled me out
of the water." Sylvie burst out laughing at
the recollection.

" Without considering/' said the youth em-
bracing me, " that you had a fine silver watch
and on the way home you were more con-
cerned about it than yourself, because it had
stopped. You said, ' the creature is drowned,
does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle
say ? ' " "A watch is a creature," said
Father Dodu; "that is what they tell chil-
dren in Paris ! "

Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was
no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I
kissed her, said : " Come again to-morrow."
Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain
and my foster-brother, and we talked a long
time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia.

" All men are equal," said Father Dodu be-
tween glasses; "I drink with a pastry-cook
as readily as with a prince."

56

" Where is the pastry-cook? " I asked.

"By your side! There you see a young
man who is ambitious to get on in life."

My foster-brother appeared embarrassed
and I understood the situation. Fate had re-
served for me a foster-brother in the very
country made famous by Rousseau, who op-
posed putting children out to nurse ! I
learned from Father Dodu that there was
much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and
Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-
shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next
morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin
took me back to Paris.

57

XIII.

AUR£LIE.

r-r\o Paris, a journey of five hours ! I was
JL impatient for evening, and eight o'clock
found me in my accustomed seat. Aurelie in-
fused her own spirit and grace into the lines
of the play, the work of a contemporary
author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the
garden scene she was sublime. During the
fourth act, when she did not appear, I went
out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost,
slipping into it a tender effusion signed An
Unknown. "There," thought I, "is some-
thing definite for the future," but on the mor-
row I was on my way to Germany.

Why did I go there? In the hope of com-
posing my disordered fancy. If I were to
write a book, I could never gain credence for
the story of a heart torn by these two conflict-
ing loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own
fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to
restore my soul. A glance from her had ar-

SYLVIE

rested me on the verge of the abyss, and
henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling god-
dess in the Temple of Wisdom. I felt more
than ever reluctant to present myself before
Aurelie among the throng of vulgar suitors
who shone in the light of her favour for an in-
stant only to fall blinded.

" Some day," said I, " we shall see whether
this woman has a heart."

One morning I learned from a newspaper
that Aurelie was ill, and I wrote to her from
the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with
German mysticism that I could hardly hope for
a reply, indeed I expected none. I left it to
chance or ... the unknoivn.

Months passed, and in the leisure intervals
of travel I undertook to embody in poetic
action the life-long devotion of the painter
Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained
by her relatives to take the veil. Something
in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of
thought, and as soon as the last verse of the
drama was written, I hastened back to France.

Can I avoid repeating in my own history,
that of many others ? I passed through all the
ordeals of the theatre. I " ate the drum and
drank the cymbal," according to the apparently
meaningless phrase of the initiates at Eleusis,
which probably signifies that upon occasion
we must stand ready to pass the bounds of

59

SYLVIE

reason and absurdity; for me it meant to win
and possess my ideal.

Aurelie accepted the leading part in the play
which I brought back from Germany. I shall
never forget the day she allowed me to read it
to her. The love scenes had been arranged
expressly for her, and I am positive that I ren-
dered them with feeling. In the conversation
that followed I revealed myself as the " Un-
known " of the two letters. She said : " You
are mad, but come again; I have never found
anyone who knew how to love me."

Oh, woman! you seek for love . . . but
what of me?

In the days which followed I wrote probably
the most eloquent and touching letters that she
ever received. Her answers were full of good
sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and
confessed that it was hard for her to break an
attachment of long standing. " If you love me
for myself alone, then you will understand that
I can belong to but one."

Two months later, I received an effusive
letter which brought me to her feet — in the
meantime, someone volunteered an important
piece of information. The handsome young
man whom I had met one night at the club
had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry.

Races were held at Chantilly the next season,
and the theatre troupe to which Aurelie be-

longed gave a performance. Once in the
country, the company was for three days sub-
ject to the orders of the director. I had made
friends with this worthy man, formerly the
Dorante of the comedies of Marivaux and for a
long time successful in lovers' parts. His latest
triumph was achieved in the play imitated from
Schiller, when my opera-glass had discovered
all his wrinkles. He had fire, however, and
being thin, produced a good effect in the
provinces. I accompanied the troupe in the
quality of poet, and persuaded the manager to
give performances at Senlis and Dammartin.
He inclined to Compiegne at first, but Aurelie
was of my opinion. Next day, while arrange-
ments with the local authorities were in pro-
gress, I ordered horses and we set out on
the road to Commelle to breakfast at the castle
of Queen Blanche. Aurelie, on horseback,
with her blonde hair floating in the wind, rode
through the forest like some queen of olden
times, and the peasants were dazzled by her

appearance. Madame de F was the only

woman they had ever seen so imposing and so
graceful. After breakfast we rode down to the
villages like Swiss hamlets where the waters of
the Nonette turn the busy saw-mills. These
scenes, which my remembrance cherished, inter-
ested Aurelie, but did not move her to delay.
I had planned to conduct her to the castle

61

SYLVIE

near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne on
the green. She manifested no emotion. Then
I told her all; I revealed the hidden spring of
that love which haunted my dreams by night
and was realized in her. She listened with
attention and said : " You do not love me !
You expect me to say « the actress and the nun
are the same'; you are merely arranging a
drama and the issue of the plot is lacking. Go !
I no longer believe in you."

Her words were an illumination. The un-
natural enthusiasm which had possessed me
for so long, my dreams, my tears, my despair
and my tenderness, — could they mean aught
but love? What then is love?

Aurelie played that night at Senlis, and I
thought she displayed a weakness for the
director, the wrinkled " young lover " of the
stage. His character was exemplary, and he
had already shown her much kindness.

One day, Aurelie said to me: "There is
the man who loves me ! "

62

XIV.
THE LAST LEAF.

SUCH are the fancies that charm and beguile
us in the morning of life ! I have tried
to set them down here, in a disconnected
fashion, but many hearts will understand me.
One by one our illusions fall like husks, and
the kernel thus laid bare is experience. Its
taste is bitter, but it yields an acrid flavour that
invigorates, — to use an old-fashioned simile.
Rousseau says that the aspect of nature is a
universal consolation. Sometimes I seek again
my groves of Clarens lost in the fog to the
north of Paris, but now, all is changed ! Her-
menonville, the spot where the ancient idyl
blossomed again, transplanted by Gessner, thy
star has set, the star that glowed for me with
twofold lustre. Blue and rose by turns, like
the changeful Aldebaran, it was formed by
Adrienne and Sylvie, the two halves of my
love. One was the sublime ideal, the other,
the sweet reality. What are thy groves and

lakes and thy desert to me now? Othys,
Montagny, Loiseaux, poor neighbouring ham-
lets, and Cha&lis now to be restored, you
guard for me no treasures of the past. Oc-
casionally, I feel a desire to return to those
scenes of lonely musing, where I sadly mark
the fleeting traces of a period when affectation
invaded nature; sometimes I smile as I read
upon the granite rocks certain lines from
Boucher, which I once thought sublime, or
virtuous maxims inscribed above a fountain
or a grotto dedicated to Pan. The swans dis-
dain the stagnant waters of the little lakes
excavated at such an expense. The time is
no more when the hunt of Conde swept by
with its proud riders, and the forest-echoes
rang with answering horns ! There is to-day
no direct route to Hermenonville, and some-
times I go by Creil and Senlis, sometimes by
Dammartin.

It is impossible to reach Dammartin before
night, so I lodge at the Image of Saint John.
They usually give me a neat room hung with
old tapestry, with a glass between the win-
dows. This room shows a return to the
fashion for bric-a-brac which I renounced
long ago. I sleep comfortably under the
eider-down covering used there. In the
morning, when I throw open the casement
wreathed with vines and roses, I gaze with

64

SYLVIE

rapture upon a wide green landscape stretch-
ing away to the horizon, where a line of pop-
lars stand like sentinels. Here and there the
villages nestle guarded by their protecting
church-spires. First Othys, then Eve and
Ver; Hermenonville would be visible beyond
the wood, if it had a belfry, but in that philo-
sophic spot the church has been neglected.
Having filled my lungs with the pure air of
these uplands, I go down stairs in good humour
and start for the pastry-cook's. " Helloa, big
Curly-head ! " " Helloa, little Parisian ! " We
greet each other with sly punches in the ribs
as we did in childhood, then I climb a certain
stair where two children welcome my coming.
Sylvie's Athenian smile lights up her classic
features, and I say to myself : " Here, perhaps,
is the happiness I have missed, and yet ..."

Sometimes I call her Lotty, and she sees in
me some resemblance to Werther without the
pistols, which are out of fashion now. While
Big Curly-head is busy with the breakfast, we
take the children for a walk through the
avenues of limes that border the ruins of the
old brick towers of the castle. While the
little ones practise with their bows and arrows,
we read some poem or a few pages from one
of those old books all too short, and long for-
gotten by the world.

I forgot to say that when Aurelie's troupe

SYLVIE

gave a performance at Dammartin, I took
Sylvie to the play and asked her if she did not
think the actress resembled someone she knew.

"Whom, pray?"

" Do you remember Adrienne ? "

She laughed merrily, in reply. " What an
idea!"

Then, as if in self-reproach, she added with
a sigh : " Poor Adrienne ! she died at the
convent of Saint S about 1832."

APPENDIX.

'EL DESDICHADO:

GERARD DE NERK4L.

I AM that dark, that disinherited,

* That all dishonoured Prince of Aquitaine,
The Star upon my scutcheon Jong hath fled;

A black sun on my lute doth yet remain !

Oh, thou that didst console me not in vain,
Within the tomb, among the midnight dead,
Show me Italian seas, and blossoms wed,

The rose, the vine-leaf, and the golden grain.

Say, am I Love or Ph&bus ? have I been
Or Lusignan or Biron ? By a Queen

Caressed within the Mermaid"1 s haunt I lay,
And twice I crossed the unpermitted stream,
And touched on Orpheus' lute as in a dream,

Sighs of a Saint, and laughter of a Fay !

(ANDREW LANG.)

TO ALEXANDER DUMAS.

WHEN it was currently reported that GeVard de Ner-
val had become insane, Alexander Dumas, who was
then publishing that amusing journal Le Mousquetaire,
endeavored to explain and interpret the poet's peculiar
form of mental alienation. Gdrard, who presently
came to himself, as was his wont, took note of the
study, and in return dedicated to Dumas his Fittes du
Feu, thus acknowledging the obligation conferred by
the great novelist in inditing the epitaph of the poet's
" lost wits,"

This dedication, now done into English for the first
time, is interesting and important, as embodying the
author's own interpretation of his singular mental con-
stitution. He confesses that he is unable to compose
without incarnating himself in his creations so thor-
oughly as to lose his own identity. In illustration, he
throws into the text the tragic history of a mythical
hero. It is easy to trace in this story of a nameless
prince, unable to prove his lofty origin, involved in a
network of misfortunes through the crafty machinations
of the arch plotter La Rancune (malice) and abandoned
by his mistress, the beautiful guiding Star of his destiny,
allegorical allusions to the poet, the heir of genius and

APPENDIX

of glory, unable to prove or justify his noble birthright,
his highest impulses misunderstood and trampled upon
by a heartless and vulgar world.

LUCIE PAGE.

T DEDICATE this book to you, my dear Mas-
•^ ter, as I dedicated Lorely to Jules Janin.
I was indebted to him for the same service that
I owe to you. A few years ago, it was re-
ported that I was dead, and he wrote my biog-
raphy. A few days ago, I was thought to have
lost my reason, and you honoured me by de-
voting some of your most graceful lines to the
epitaph of my intelligence. Such an inheri-
tance of glory has fallen to me before my time.
How shall I venture, yet living, to deck my
forehead with these shining crowns? It be-
comes me to assume an air of modesty and beg
the public to accept, with suitable deductions,
the eulogy bestowed upon my ashes, or rather
upon the lost wits contained in the bottle
which, like Astolpho, I have been to seek in
the moon, and which, I trust, I have now re-
stored to their normal place in the seat of
thought.

Being, therefore, no longer mounted upon
the hippogriff, and having, in the popular con-
ception, recovered what is vulgarly termed
reason, — let us proceed to the exercise of
that faculty.

70

APPENDIX

Here is a fragment of what you wrote con-
cerning me, the tenth of last December :

"As you can readily perceive, he possesses a
subtle and highly cultivated intellect, in which
is manifested from time to time a singular phe-
nomenon which, fortunately, let us hope, has
no serious import to himself or his friends. At
intervals, when preoccupied by literary toil, im-
agination goaded to frenzy masters reason and
drives it from the brain; then, like an opium-
smoker of Cairo, or a hashish-eater of Algiers,
Gerard finds again the talismans that evoke
spirits. Now he is King Solomon waiting for
the Queen of Sheba; then by turns Sultan of
the Crimea, Count of Abyssinia, Duke of Egypt,
or Baron of Smyrna. Next day, he declares him-
self mad and relates the whole series of events
from which his madness sprung, with such a
joyous abandon, such an ingenious fertility of
resource that one is ready to part with his wits
in order to follow such a fascinating guide
through the desert of dreams and hallucinations,
sprinkled with oases fresher and greener than
any which dot the route from Alexandria to
Ammon. Finally, melancholy becomes his
muse of inspiration, and now, restrain your tears
if you can, for never did Werther, Rene, or
Antony pour forth sobs and complaints more
tender and pathetic 1 "

71

APPENDIX

I shall now endeavour to explain to you, my
dear Dumas, the phenomenon which you men-
tion above. There are, as you well know,
certain writers who cannot invent without iden-
tifying themselves with the creations of their im-
agination. You remember with what conviction
our old friend Nodier related how he had the
misfortune to be guillotined in the Revolution.
The narrative was so convincing that we won-
dered instinctively how he had contrived to
fasten his head on again.

Understand, therefore, that the ardour of
production may conduce to a like result, that
the author incarnates himself, as it were, in the
hero of his imagination so completely that he
loses himself and burns with the imaginary
flames of this hero's love and ambition ! This
was precisely the effect produced upon me in
narrating the history of a personage who
figured under the title of Brisacier, about the
time of Louis XV, I believe. Where did I
read the fatal biography of this adventurer? I
have found again that of the Abbe of Bucquoy,
but I cannot recall the slightest historical proof
of the existence of this illustrious unknown.
What for you, dear Master, would have been
but a pastime, — you, who have with clever
artifices so bewildered our minds concerning
the old chronicles, that posterity will never be
able to disentangle truth from fiction, and is

APPENDIX

certain to credit your invention with all the
characters from history that figure in your
romances — this became for me a veritable
obsession. To invent, is in reality only to
recollect, says a certain moralist. Finding no
proofs of the material existence of my hero, I
suddenly came to believe in the transmigration
of souls, not less firmly than Pythagoras or
Peter Leroux. Even the eighteenth century,
in which I believed myself to have lived, was
full of these illusions. Do you remember that
courtier who recalled distinctly that he was
once a sofa? Whereupon Schahabaham ex-
claimed with enthusiasm, "What, you were
once a sofa ! why, that is delightful ! — Tell
me, were you embroidered?"

As for me, I was embroidered at every seam.
From the moment when I first grasped the
continuity of all my previous existences, I
figured as readily in one character as another,
prince, king, mage, genie, or even god; could
1 unite my memories in one masterpiece, it
would represent the Dream of Scipio, the
Vision of Tasso or the Divine Comedy of
Dante. Renouncing, henceforth, all preten-
sions to inspiration or illumination, I can offer
only what you so justly call impracticable
theories, an impossible book, whose first chap-
ter, subjoined below, seems but to furnish the
context 'of the Comic Romance of Scarron. . . .
Read and judge for yourself :
73

APPENDIX

A TRAGIC ROMANCE.
Here I still languish in my prison, Madame,
still rash and culpable and alas ! still trusting in
that beautiful star of comedy, which, for one
brief instant, deigned to call me her destiny
The Star and its Destiny! what a charming
couple to figure in a romance like the poet
Scarron's ! And yet, how difficult we should
find it to sustain the two characters now ! The
heavy vehicles which used to jolt us over the
uneven pavements of Mons, have been super-
seded by coach, post-chaise and other new in-
ventions. Where shall we find to-day those wild
adventures, that gay, Bohemian life that united
us, poets and actresses, as comrades and equals?
You have betrayed and deserted us, and left us
to perish in some miserable inn, while you
share the fortunes of some rich and gallant
lord. Here, in sooth, am I, but lately the bril-
liant actor, the prince in disguise, the disinher-
ited son and the banished lover, no better
treated than some provincial rhymer! My
countenance disfigured by an enormous plas-
ter only adds to my discomfiture. The landlord,
tempted by the plausible story poured into his
ears by La Rancune, has consented to hold as
security for the settlement of his account the
person of the son of the great Khan of the
Crimea, sent here to finish his education and well
known throughout Christian Europe as Brisa-

74

APPENDIX

cier. Had the old intriguer, La Rancune,
left me a few gold pieces, or even a paltry
watch set with false brilliants, I could, doubt-
less, have won the respect of my accusers and
extricated myself from this unfortunate situa-
tion. But in addition, you have left my ward-
robe furnished only with a puce-coloured
smock-coat, a blue and black striped waist-
coat and small clothes in a doubtful state of
repair. The suspicions of the landlord were
awakened upon lifting my valise after your de-
parture, and he insulted me to my face "by
calling me an imposter, and a contraband
prince. I sprang up to stab him, but La
Rancune had removed my sword, fearing lest
despair on account of the ungrateful mistress
who has abandoned me, might lead me to
thrust it through my heart. This precau-
tion was needless, O La Rancune ! An actor
never stabs himself with the sword that he
has worn in many a comedy; nor does he who
is himself the hero of tragedy ape the hero
of a romance. I call all my comrades to wit-
ness that such a death could never be repre-
sented with dignity upon the stage. I know
that one may plant his sword in the earth and
fall upon it with outstretched arms ; but in
spite of the cold weather, I have here a bare
floor with no carpet. The window, too, is
wide enough and at sufficient height to aid in

75

APPENDIX

putting an end to all despair. But . . . but as
I have told you a thousand times, I am an actor
with a conscience.

Do you remember how I used to play Achil-
les, when in passing through some third or
fourth-rate town, the whim would seize us to
re-establish the neglected cult of the old French
tragedians? Was I not noble and puissant in
the gilded helmet with streaming locks of
purple blackness, the glittering armor and
azure cloak? What a spectacle to see a father
as weak and cowardly as Agamemnon contend
with the priest Calchas for the honour of immo-
lating such a victim as poor, weeping Iphigenia !
I rushed like a thunderbolt into the midst of the
forced and cruel action; I restored hope to the
mothers and reawakened courage in the
daughters, always sacrificed from a sense of
duty, to stay the anger of a god, allay the
vengeance of a nation, or advance the interests
of a family. For it is easy to recognize here
the eternal type of human marriage. The
father will forevermore deliver up his daughter
through ambition, and the mother will sell her
through cupidity; but the lover is not always
the worthy Achilles, so gallant and terrible,
albeit a trifle too rhetorical for a man of war !

As for me, I often rebelled against declaim-
ing long tirades in defense of a course so evi-
dently just, in the face of an audience so easily

APPENDIX

convinced that I was in the right. I was
tempted to stab the whole idiotic court of the
king of kings, with its sleepy rows of super-
numeraries, and so put an end to the piece.
The public would have been delighted, but on
second thoughts would have found the play
too short, considering that time sufficient to
witness the sufferings of a princess, a lover
and a queen, was its rightful due ; a period
long enough to see them weep, rage and pour
forth a torrent of poetic invective against the
established authority of priest and king. That
was well worth five acts and two hours of close
attention, and the audience would not content
itself with less. It desires the humiliation of
this proud race seated upon the throne of
Greece, before whom Achilles himself dares to
thunder but in words ; it must sound all the
depths of misery hidden beneath this royal
purple whose majesty seems so irresistible.
The tears which fall from the most glorious
eyes in the world upon the swelling bosom of
Iphigenia, excite the crowd no less than her
beauty, her grace and the splendour of her
royal robes. Listen to the sweet voice that
pleads for life with the touching reminder
that, as yet, she stands but upon its threshold.
Who does not favour her lover ? Who could
wish to see her slain? Great gods, what
heart so hard! None, surely! ... On the

77

APPENDIX

contrary, the whole audience has already de-
cided that she must die for the general good
rather than live for one individual. Achilles
seems to all too grand, too superb ! Shall
Iphigenia be borne away by this Thessalian
vulture, as, not long ago, the daughter of Leda
was stolen by a shepherd prince from the
voluptuous shores of Asia? This is the ques-
tion of paramount importance to the Greeks
and to the audience as well, which takes our
measure when we act the part of hero. I
felt myself as much an object of hatred
to the men as of admiration to the women
when I thus played the part of victorious
lover, because it was no indifferent actress,
taught to listlessly drone those immortal
verses, that I was defending, but a true
Greek maiden, a pearl of grace, purity and
love, worthy, indeed, to be rescued by all
human efforts from the hands of the jealous
gods. Not Iphigenia alone, she was Junia,
Berenice, all the heroines rendered illustri-
ous by the fair blue eyes of Mile, de Champ-
mesle, or the charming graces of the noble
maidens of Saint Cyr. Poor Aurelie! My
comrade and my sister, wilt thou never regret
those hours of triumph and rapture? Didst
thou not love me for an instant, cold star,
when I fought and wept and suffered for thee ?
The audience questioned nightly : " Who,

APPENDIX

pray, is this actress, so far beyond all that we
have ever applauded ? Are we not mistaken ?
Is she really as young, as dazzling, and as
pure as she seems?" The young women en-
vied, criticised or admired sadly. As for me,
I needed to see her constantly, so as not to
feel overpowered by her beauty and to be able
to meet her eyes whenever the exigencies of
the plot demanded. . . .

This is why Achilles was my triumph, al-
though I was often embarrassed in other parts.
What a pity that I could not change the situ-
ations to suit me, and sacrifice even the
thoughts of genius to my love and respect!
The character of a timid and captive lover like
Britannicus or Bajazet, did not please me.
The purple of the young Caesar attracted me
more; but what a misfortune to declaim in
conclusion only cold and perfidious speeches !
What! Was this young Nero, the idol of
Rome, the handsome athlete, the dancer, the
poet whose only wish was to please the popu-
lace? Is this what history and the concep-
tions of our poets have left of him? Ah ! give
me his fury to interpret ; his power I would
fear to accept. Nero ! I have comprehended
thee, not alas ! according to Racine, but ac-
cording to my own heart, torn with agony
whenever I have ventured to impersonate thee !
Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst have

79

APPENDIX

burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since
Rome had insulted thee ! . . .

A hiss, a miserable hiss, in her presence,
and because of her! A hiss of scorn
which she attributes to herself — through
my mistake, be it understood! Alas! my
friends, for an instant, I felt an impulse to show
myself truly great, immortal, upon the stage of
your theatre. Instead of replying to the insult
by another, which brought upon me the assault
from which I still suffer, instead of provoking
a vulgar audience to rush upon the scene
and cowardly beat and belabour me, I held
for a moment a sublime purpose, worthy of
Caesar himself, a purpose which none could
hesitate to pronounce in harmony with the
dramatic conceptions of the great Racine him-
self! I thought to set fire to the theatre, and
while the audience perished in the flames, bear
away Aurelie in my arms, her disheveled
tresses streaming over her disordered dress.
O remorse that fills my feverish nights and
days of agony! What! I might have done
this and I refrained! What! Do ye still
insult me, ye, who owe your lives to pity,
rather than any fear on my part? I might
have burned them all ! Judge for yourselves :

the theatre of P has but one exit; ours

opened upon a little street in the rear, but the
green-room, where you were all assembled, is

80

APPENDIX

on the other side of the stage. In order to
set fire to the curtain, I had only to snatch
down one of the lamps ; I ran no risk of de-
tection, for the manager could not see me and
I was alone listening to the insipid dialogue
between Britannicus and Junia, waiting for my
cue to reappear; all through that scene I was
struggling with myself, and when I entered
upon the stage I was turning and twisting in my
fingers a glove that I had picked up ; I expected
to avenge myself more nobly than Caesar himself
of an insult that I had felt with all the heart of a
Caesar. . . . Ah, well ! the cowards dared not
begin again; my glance confounded them,
and I was on the point of pardoning the
audience, if not Junia herself, when she
dared. . . . Immortal gods ! . . . Hold, let
me speak my mind! . . . Yes, since that
night, it is my delusion to imagine myself a
Roman, an emperor; I have identified myself
with my part, and the tunic of Nero clings to
my burning limbs as that of the centaur to the
dying Hercules. Let us jest no more with
sacred things, not even those of an age and
nation long since past, lest perchance some
tongue of flame yet quiver in the ashes of the
gods of Rome ! . . .

Consider, friends, that in this scene more
than a mere repetition of measured lines was
involved and three hearts contended with equal

81

APPENDIX

chances, where as in the arena, life-blood
itself might flow! The audience, that of a
small town where there are no secrets, knew it
well ; those women, many of them ready to
fall at my feet, could I be false to my one
love, those men all jealous of me on her ac-
count, and the third, well chosen for the part
of Britannicus, the poor, stammering suitor,
who trembled before me in her presence, but
who was destined to be my conqueror in that
fearful contest where all the honours were re-
served for the latest comer. ... Ah ! the no-
vice in love knew his part well. . . . However,
he had nothing to fear, for I am too just to
condemn another for the same love that I feel
myself ; in this particular, I am far removed
from the ideal monster of the poet Racine; I
could burn Rome without hesitation, but, in
saving Junia, I should also save my brother,
Britannicus.

Yes, my brother, yes, frail child of art and
fancy like myself, thou hast conquered in the
struggle, having merited the prize for which
we two contended. Heaven preserve me from
taking advantage of my age, strength, or the
fierce courage of returning health to question
the choice or the caprice of her, the all-
powerful, impartial divinity of my dreams and
life ! . . . I only feared, for a time, lest my de-
feat profit thee nothing and the gay suitors of

82

APPENDIX

the town wrest from us both the prize lost
only for me.

The letter which I have just received from
La Caverne reassures me fully on that point.
She advises me to renounce an art for which
I have no capacity and which is incompatible
with my necessities. The jest, in sooth, is
bitter, for never did I stand in greater need, if
not of my art, at least of its swift returns. This
is just the point that you do not understand.
You consider that you have acquitted your-
self of all obligations toward me in recom-
mending me to the authorities of Soissons as
a distinguished personage, whom his family
cannot abandon, but whose violent illness
has forced you to leave him behind in your
journey. Your tool, La Rancune, presented
himself at the town hall and the inn with all
the airs of a Spanish grandee forced by un-
pleasant circumstances to spend a couple of
nights in such a disagreeable place ; the rest of

you obliged to leave P the day after my

disaster, had, as I conceive, no reason to allow
yourselves to pass merely for disreputable
players : it is quite enough to wear that mask
in places where no other course is possible.
As for me, what can I say, how shall I extri-
cate myself from the infernal network of con-
spiracy in which I find myself caught and
held through the machinations of La Rancune ?

APPENDIX

The famous couplet from Corneille's " Men-
teur " assuredly aided him in his invention for
the wit of such a rascal as he never reached
such a pitch. Think for a moment. . . . But
what can I tell you that you do not know
already and have not devised together to ruin
me ? Have not the white fingers of the ingrate
who is the cause of all my misfortunes, tangled
inextricably all the silken threads that she
could weave about her poor victim? . . . What
a master-plot ! Ah, well ! I am a captive and
I confess it; I yield and implore mercy. You
can take me back without fear now, and if the
rapid post-chaises that bore you swiftly over
the Flanders' route, three months ago, have
already given place to the humble equipages
of our first adventures, deign at least to re-
ceive me in the quality of monster or phe-
nomenon, fit to draw the crowd, and I pro-
mise to acquit myself of these duties in a manner
calculated to appease the most exacting ama-
teur of the province. . . . Answer immedi-
ately and I will send a trusty messenger to
bring me the letter from the post, as I fear
the curiosity of mine host. . . .

BRISACIER.

How dispose now of this hero deserted by
his mistress and his companions? Is he, in
truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished

APPENDIX

for insulting the public, for indulging in his
mad jealousy and alleging ridiculous claims?
How can he prove that he is the legitimate son
of the Khan of the Crimea, according to the
crafty recital of La Rancune ? How, from the
depths of misery where he is plunged, can he
rise to the highest destiny? These are points
which would, doubtless, trouble you but little,
but which have thrown my mind into a strange
disorder. Once persuaded that I was writing
my own history, I was touched by this love for
a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark
night of my destiny; I have wept and shud-
dered over these visions. Then a ray divine
illumined my inferno; surrounded by dim
and monstrous shapes of horror against which
I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic
clue, the thread of Ariadne, and since then all
my visions have become celestial. One day,
I shall write the history of this " Descent to
Hades," and you will see that it has not
been entirely devoid of reason, if it has
always been wanting in fact. And, since you
have been so rash as to cite one of my sonnets
composed in this state of supernatural trance,
as the Germans call it, you must hear the rest.
You will find them among my poems. They
are little more obscure than the metaphysics
of Hegel or the Visions of Swedenborg, and
would lose their charm with any attempt at

APPENDIX

explanation, were that possible; — probably
my last illusion will be that of thinking myself
a poet; criticism must dispel it.
1854.

86

LOAN DEPT.

NOV 1 7

•

JUN 11 1990

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